


The Pitiable Pair

by CasuallyCompetent



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, One Shot, Platonic Life Partners, Pre-Stream (Critical Role)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28021143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasuallyCompetent/pseuds/CasuallyCompetent
Summary: A series of short, disjointed drabbles on how a depressed wizard and an alcoholic goblin might have ended up adopting each other. Told mainly through the former's perspective.
Relationships: Nott | Veth Brenatto & Caleb Widogast
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	The Pitiable Pair

* * *

Caleb’s first impression of his cellmate was that she looked like a wretched, pitiful little mess of a creature. So immediately, there was a sense of kinship between them.

The second was that she was, unexpectedly, a rather adorable little critter, in an ugly, base kind of way. He couldn’t guess if it was a quality unique to this particular specimen, or if most simply respected themselves enough to not deign notice whatever cuteness might be inherent to the goblin race. Whatever the case, he had always held a fondness for cute things, as evinced by the spotted feline he materialized onto his lap, purring in delight as he absentmindedly scratched behind its ear.

And, lastly, Nott -who he suspected was not quite as courageous as her full title would have you believe- was regardless a very useful individual. The first plan they concocted in that damp, dingy cell was a resounding success, and it wasn’t long before the two were walking at a brisk pace away from the swirling blaze that used to be their prison. Despite all this, however, distrustful Caleb had yet to make up his mind about her, and how much further he wished for their fates to intertwine.

It was at around this moment that a loud crackle echoed from the burning timber at their back, and the abrasive sound was just a bit too familiar. A dizziness, the taste of bile, that consuming black pit at the core of his midriff that pulled at the whole of him like a hungry vacuum. Caleb’s knees wobbled and he had to pause to keep himself from stumbling, eyes closed shut, sharp breaths wheezing in and out of him as he struggled to contain the fit before it had a chance to settle proper.

Then a small, clawed hand closing around his elbow. Large, yellow eyes looking at him from below, monstrous in their make but so incredibly human in the soft, questioning concern they express. Nott asks if he’s feeling the pangs and, not awaiting a response, fishes a corner of stale bread roughly the consistency of dry rock out of her grimy robes, pilfered who knows how long ago by some other unlucky inmate, and shoves it into his palm. Satisfied to have been of help, she then tugs at his sleeve and leads him away from the light of the raging flames and into the blissful quiet of the cold, dark night.

Caleb, still stupidly holding onto the nigh inedible piece of bread, follows after her obediently. And that’s that.

* * *

The fourth was, probably, that Nott was what a more pleasant person would describe as “endlessly entertaining”.

She maintained a manic energy Caleb didn’t think could be achieved without the copious use of illegal stimulants, had a fundamentally skittish personality that was constantly at odds with her incessant thrill-seeking, and regarded herself an avid collector of things that weren’t hers. This last trait in particular often had her devising numerous cons between her and the mage, and while they were generally as harebrained as herself, they actually went a long way towards keeping the two of them fed, if in a semi-regular basis, as well as acquiring new books for him to pore over.

But what Caleb appreciated most, which he would never have expected of a mere goblin, was the prospect of stimulating conversation. Indeed, he had soon found that her squeaky, rambling speech was all too often interspersed with a disarming amount of wit, and there were offhand comments, horrendous puns and little insights into her zany worldview that would draw a chuckle out of him, or at least what passed for one by his metric. He even felt motivated to repay her in kind, and was genuinely pleased with himself whenever he succeeded.

So Caleb wonders, as he sits across of her sipping watery ale in some backwater roadside inn and listening to her abject, self-abasing apology for getting herself caught and both of them kicked out of the town they were last in, if she can make out the gratitude in his eyes. Knowing him, he guesses not; so he cuts her off, assures her that it is fine, and orders a couple of silvers worth of booze from the rotund dwarven barmaid.

Seeing Nott’s face light up at the order, he can’t help but think that a better friend would encourage her to overcome this unhealthy addiction. He knows it’d be nothing but presumptuous coming from him, however, for the simple reason that he isn’t a better friend, and how she chooses to cope with herself is her own business, and she’d be far too jittery to function without it now, anyway.

This is what they are, the two of them. They’re no good for anyone else, and certainly no good for themselves; but he is beginning to hope that maybe, just _maybe,_ they can at least be good for each other.

The plan was to use the purchased bottle to fill Nott’s comically oversized flask for the road, but Caleb miscalculated, and the alcohol is all gone by the morning. Seeing it rapidly vanish, the mage sighs in resignation and sneaks in a couple of swigs himself. After all, as coping goes, this particular vice is undeniably effective.

* * *

Holding hands as they make their way down a street, with Nott’s face hidden behind her half mask and a lowered hood, they could convincingly pass as a father and child pair to the unalarmed onlooker. The latter couldn’t know that, more often than not, the opposite was true.

Caleb, of course, was always brooding, so this was no cause for concern. Many nights were devoted entirely to his studies and those of sleep were seldom restful, so the heavy black bags under his eyes were an ever-present feature that after a time simply went unnoticed. His dour expression and dejected, slightly stooping posture hardly altered throughout the day, and everything down to his humorless mode of speech communicated a bleak, melancholy outlook that Nott had grown accustomed to in their time together.

But there were also those little moments -sometimes with whole weeks in between, at others multiple within a day- when Caleb’s mood fouled further. It happened with small, innocent things; a vaguely familiar face, the appetizing smell of a poor woman’s homecooked meal, a child piggybacking on his father’s shoulders. Anything, Caleb realized, that might bring to mind a happy memory. He theorized that this was a defense mechanism of sorts, that he subconsciously understood how reminiscing was a slippery slope, and so had made it altogether unpleasant to better avoid it. It was a solution the methodical, rational part of him found satisfying, and saw no reason to countermand.

And still another part of him knew full well that his rights to happy memories had long ago been waived.

He’s confident that it never shows, thoroughly obscured under the layers of dirt and apathy he cultivates on his face. Yet, inexplicably, it is always then that Nott chooses to match his pace and slip her hand gently into his own. One of the two squeezes first -Caleb would like to think it isn’t him, but he can never tell for sure-, the other squeezes back, and the day proceeds as normal. They don’t acknowledge it, but Caleb swears the little goblin can read him, though he can’t for the life of him guess how. In the end, he must attribute it to some bizarre, mystical intuition of hers.

It would have been fairly easy to place, were he more willing to reminisce about better days.

* * *

Moments of joy would always sneak up on Caleb. He was perfectly capable of being amused, he would assure you, but true, heartfelt elation was always just naturally assumed to be beyond him.

So he is taken aback when, after Nott finally gets it right and manages to make arcane sparks dance off her palm and burst like miniature fireworks in the air above their meager camp, he hears his own triumphant cackles rise up in synch with her own. He claps his hands, picks her up and hugs her before she can undo the spell, and the resulting fire burns through the tips of his filthy overcoat before they finally put it out. Caleb, in his own words to an unduly apologetic Nott, doesn’t give a shit. Can she do it again?

He doesn’t realize just how happy he is until Nott jokingly points it out minutes later. Immediately the wizard gathers himself, resumes the straight face, the slumped shoulders, the calm, measured speech, and Nott scolds him for it, but to no avail. The moment is over, and methodical, rational Caleb has to ponder over it in surprise and mild embarrassment, because that’s how he is.

 _Oh, well._ Nott shrugs and takes another sip from her flask, preparing to repeat the nifty magic trick she’s just added to her arsenal. It’s fine. She’s learned a couple new things tonight.

And when the next moment inevitably comes, she’ll take care not to cut it short.

* * *

Caleb hears the yelling from somewhere behind him, at the edge of the marketplace. He hears a heavy, booming voice cursing. He hears the word _vermin._

He turns around, cranes his neck past the crowd, and has his suspicions confirmed; a large, corpulent, thick-armed human, a merchant in one of the booths lining the town dock, is advancing menacingly at a crouched Nott. Something had caught her eye a minute before and she’d gone off to acquire it, but was spotted, startled, and her mask snapped off. Now she is too focused on hurriedly retrieving and putting it back on, and doesn’t notice just how quickly the large man has caught up to her.

The hollow _thump_ of his kick is heard clearly, even over the gasping crowd and Caleb’s useless warning. Nott is sent flying into the dirt of the road, and her pretty porcelain mask lands at her feet, now lined with unseemly fissures along the chin and cheeks.

The man advances on her again, but Caleb gets to her first. He places one hand upon his friend and extends the other towards the merchant in a mollifying gesture. In his mind he is already going through excuses, apologies and assurances in quick succession, thinking of a way to avoid involving the indolent guards who’ve yet to take notice and be allowed to exit the town in peace.

But those aren’t the words that leave his lips.

The merchant’s eyes turn to fear as Caleb’s fingers blacken and flake, and with a _whoosh_ are coated in bright, jittering flame. It begins to dance above his palm, then forms into a perfect sphere as Caleb finishes the incantation, radiating such heat that beads of sweat begin to form on the man’s forehead. He sees the look on the disheveled wizard’s face, and is certain he is about to die.

Caleb closes his fist, and the fire dissipates. He picks up the dazed goblin who just barely thinks to scoop up her damaged mask and dashes into the crowd, shoving his way to the far end of the district and the gates leading out into the open road. Bystanders murmur to themselves, yet unsure of what just transpired, while the merchant is still too shaken to alert anyone who might have stopped them in time.

“It’s fine, Caleb! I blocked it with my nose,” Nott jests some time later, after they’ve made it safely into the surrounding woods. In truth, she seems more peeved than she is injured, which is a relief. Caleb is reminded not to underestimate his little companion. She is tough; tougher than himself, most likely. She would probably have been okay on her own. “Nosy fucker… It wasn’t even his stall!”

That night she sleeps huddled a bit closer to him than usual. He thinks it might be because she was actually scared back in the marketplace, or that she feels bad for getting caught; even though _she_ is the one who always gets their food, and most of their funds, and spends what she doesn’t drink on books for him, anyway. But Caleb knows better by now. He knows she does it because she feels he needs it.

Caleb _is_ afraid. Horribly, deathly, _viscerally_ afraid. He has been ever since he came to his senses and fled the town with Nott in his arms. First he was afraid of this instinct, this unhesitating aggression he thought he had long ago put to rest, which it turns out can still flare up at a moment's notice. But the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that what he fears most is exactly how afraid of it he still is.

 _What if it happens again?_ He asks himself, staring above at a billowing roof of soughing leaves. What if next time the one kicking her isn’t so easily cowed? What if next time he actually _has_ to go through with it? This is the thought that has him shaking.

Because what if he doesn’t? What if, when push comes to shove, he can’t?

What if the only ones his flames can burn are—

So he resolves, there and then, that he will. He will fire it next time, if he must, even if he suffers for it. Even if it means breaking. Even if it kills him.

Because Nott would.

And even if she wouldn’t, he knows that she deserves it.


End file.
